


Mind Games

by silver_sun



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Mind Rape, Other, Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-22
Updated: 2011-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-14 23:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_sun/pseuds/silver_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the year that never was Jack finds out that sometimes the cruellest tortures of all are those produced within our own minds. Major spoilers for end of DW series 3 and vague spoilers for TW series 2. Dark themes. Eventually JackIanto</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mind Games

Pairing: Vaguely implied past Nine/Jack, but pairing not the focus of the story.

Rating: M

Warning: Mental violation. Rape. This is dark fic.

Spoilers: Doctor Who, from Utopia through to Last of the Time Lords.

Summary: Sometimes the cruellest tortures of all are those produced within our own minds.

A/N: This is my first time staying outside my usual pg/pg-13 rated fic so any comments are very welcome.

* * *

From the moment Jack realises that Saxon, he refuses, even mentally, to refer to him as the Master, can see into his mind, can knock down his mental defences like they are made of paper, he knows that he's in serious trouble.

Saxon is all manic smile and energy as he walks into the cell that has been Jack's home for the last five months. "Morning, freak." He places his hands either side of Jack's head. "Now what shall we watch today?"

Jack knows better than to try to fight him, knows the consequences for everybody else aboard the Valiant that he cares about should he even attempt to resist. Nor does Jack bother to dignify him with a response. Bitter experience has taught him that he won't be given any choice in what Saxon decides he will be made to see and feel.

Forcing Jack to re-live some his most unpleasant memories is just the latest in Saxon's series of experiments on him, and the more humiliating and painful the memories are the more he seems to enjoy them. On the days when he can't find a bad memory to suit whatever twisted pleasure he gains from this he takes good memories, takes them and alters them, feeding in fear and pain until Jack can't remember what is real and what is just another of Saxon's sick lies.

Jack allows Saxon into his mind without a struggle, dropping all barriers, knowing that the sooner it is started the sooner it will be over.

Today's memory is unfamiliar and although he's sure he's never been there before Jack finds himself running through what he knows to be the darkened and deserted streets of thirtysecond century London. He's trying to get away from some unknown horror behind him, he's half naked, his clothes, the remains of some type of uniform that he can't quite place, are in tatters. Bruised, bloody and so afraid that he can hardly draw enough breath to keep running he struggles on, his bare feet cut and bleeding from the pursuit.

Turning a corner his foot catches in a pothole and he falls hard, hands and knees tearing on the rough ground. It's all the opportunity the creature needs and a second later it's on him. Huge, formless and utterly terrifying, its unseen claws tearing at his clothing and skin, pushing his face into the dirt.

He's trying to shout, to scream for somebody, anybody to help him, but it's cutting off his air, crushing him with its weight, and he all can get out are choking sobs as its claws rip away the last of his clothing.

Jack knows with a sickening certainty what is going to happen next as he feels slick tentacles pull his legs apart, the suckers on them trail octopus like across his skin.

Revolted and so very afraid there isn't even enough air left in his lungs to scream as it forces it's way inside him, sensitive skin tearing under it's onslaught. Pinned down and unable to breathe Jack can do nothing as but lay there choking as the agony builds, until eventually, mercifully, he passes out.

Then suddenly it's over, gone, and he's stood, trembling in his cell, Saxon's fingertips resting lightly on his temples.

Too shocked by what he has just been forced to endure Jack can do nothing but stare at Saxon in mute horror, his breath coming in short ragged gasps.

Saxon is still grinning maniacally as he lowers his hands, "That was very educational, I didn't know a human body could stand so much damage and survive, you learn something new everyday." He looks at his watch, "Fun as this all is I've got to dash, you know how it is, countries to conquer, people to kill. Busy, busy, busy that me." Saxon slaps him hard across the arse, a final insult as he leaves, calling back, "Same time tomorrow."

As soon as Saxon and his guards are gone Jack stumbles the few steps across to the mattress on the floor, the only furniture in his otherwise bare cell, and drops to his knees.

Jack's sure what he's just been forced to endure could never have actually happened to him, that it has to be just another sick and twisted game that Saxon is playing with him, but it had seemed so very real.

Real enough that Jack's sure he's never going to be able forget the mind numbing fear and the sense of complete and utter helplessness that he felt during the creature and Saxon's violation of his mind and body.

It's overwhelming and Jack's stomach cramps, bile burning at the back of his throat and he barely has time to stagger from the mattress before he vomits the remains of his meagre breakfast onto the floor.

Shivering, Jack crawls back onto the mattress and tries to fight back the tide of sheer panic that is threatening to engulf him. He doesn't want to think about what he has just seen, what he has just felt, but there is nothing in the room to distract him, nothing to stop thinking about it, nothing to stop his mind replaying it over and over again.

He tries to talk himself through it, talk himself down, telling himself that it could never really have happened. Yet doubt remains. What if it had? What if it was something from his missing two years? What if he'd removed his own memories to forget this?

After all there's a small, faint scar on his hip that he's never been able to work out where and when he got it. What if it was from this?

There are too many what ifs and a ragged sob escapes him. Pressing a hand across his mouth, Jack bites down against it determined that he's not going to give Saxon, if he's still listening, the satisfaction of hearing him cry, of letting him know just how close he is to breaking right now.

He can't fall apart, he tells himself, he's not allowed to, not yet. Not while the Doctor needs him to be a distraction, not while Martha needs him to divert Saxon's seemingly boundless capacity for destruction away from her, and definitely not while Martha's family need him to be the one to bear Saxon's brutality. He knows they would never ask such a thing of him, they are good people, he does it simply because he knows that he can survive it and they would not. So despite the pain it brings him, he has almost come to welcome it, because it makes him feel like he has a purpose.

And just maybe, if he is totally honest with himself, it's because he hopes that if the Doctor ever finds out what he has endured he might be able to look at him again and call him his friend.

A hand still pressed against his mouth, stifling sobs he's can't quite keep inside, Jack curls into a ball, trying to will his mind into blankness.

Jack hates to blank his mind completely, to zone out, the empty darkness of it feels too much like death. Right now though he welcomes the numb oblivion it will bring him, because it's preferable to the almost overwhelming feelings of shame and despair that now seem to fill every part of his consciousness.

He'd learnt how to do it as part of his training with the Time Agency. They'd told him that it would help him withstand torture, that it was necessary skill, as only by understanding how to resist torture did you gain the necessary knowledge to perform it.

Jack can't help but wonder that if he'd paid more attention to those classes, if he'd just taken it more seriously or if he's kept up his practice of it, whether he would have been able to resist Saxon, maybe even push his way in to Saxon's mind.

He's just not good enough, he never has been and that's the problem, he's sure of it now, because why else would the Doctor have run from him?

A sickening though occurs to him, what if Martha managed to rescue the Doctor, would they even try to rescue him? or would he be left behind again? Abandoned to suffer without even the hope that death would one day release him from his torment.

He has no answers and it hurts even to think about the trust, the faith, that he once had in the Doctor, so Jack lets the darkness claim him, finding, at least temporarily, a sort of numb relief in the emptiness of his own mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saluting Jack turns and walks away.

Saluting Jack turns and walks away.

Behind him he can hear them talking, their tone amused and disbelieving. He has no idea what the Doctor and Martha think is so absurd, nor can he find it within himself to care. The fact that they are laughing at him rather than with him is all he needs to know, to confirm to him that his decision to walk away had been the right one.

Stepping onto the invisible lift and out of sight he allows the pretence to drop and the fake smile fade. It sickens him to think that after all they have been through, after all they have suffered, after what _he_ has suffered, that they can laugh about him behind his back, and that they don't even bother to wait for him to leave before they do so.

He closes his eyes as the lift descends, and wonders how their laugher can cut so deeply into the numbness he's worn like armour for so much of this past year.

What has he ever done to the Doctor to deserve such treatment? He's died for him, he gave his life for him back when he had only had the one life to give, and he'd done it willingly and out of love.

So why is he still treated as less than the man, the monster, who'd ordered the death of millions, and who danced and laughed while the Earth burnt? Why he is still less in the Doctor's eyes than a man who kept him chained like an animal, and who'd tortured and abused him for his own sick amusement?

He has no answers, or at least none that provide any comfort.

The Doctor had praise for Martha, and Jack doesn't, and never will, begrudge her a second of it. She came back for them, for both of them, and she had made sure that he had not been left behind, not this time, and for that he will always be grateful.

But it hurt that still there had been nothing for him. Not a sorry, not a thank you, not a hug or even a handshake. Nothing to say that the Doctor even remotely cared what he'd suffered, not an ounce of gratitude shown for all that Jack had done for him, nor any comfort given.

It had been the Doctor's tears and grief both when Saxon died, and later when he'd burnt the monster's body, that had been more than Jack could bear, and the reason that he could no longer travel with the man who had once meant so very much to him.

Stepping from the lift and into a deserted and silent Hub, Jack looks frantically around, panic building as he looks for some sign that his team, his stupid, wonderful and so very human team, who, even in the face of death, had never given up on him, and who never will, have survived.

He can't tell. Some things are out of place, but there is nothing to say that they had survived Saxon or their trip to the Himalayas, nothing to say that he'll ever see them alive again.

The hope of seeing them again, knowing that they wouldn't ever willingly abandon him, that they cared, had been a lifeline that he'd clung to during those dark days that had followed Saxon's attack on his mind and the horrific things that he'd been shown.

The thought he may never see them again is almost too awful to comprehend. He knows that one day he will lose them, all of them falling pray to the unstoppable passage of time and that's terrifying enough. But to never have the chance to say goodbye, to know that their last memories of him will that of him abandoning them, is more than he can bear.

It feels like a lump lead in his chest, pressing down on his heart, cold and burning it threatens to crush the life from him. His hands clutch to his throat, he can't breathe or rather there doesn't seem to be any air in the room no matter how hard he tries to fill his lungs, it feels like his heart is trying to beat it's way out of his chest.

Light headed and fearful at what is happening to him he manages to stumble the few steps to his office, nearly falling down the ladder into his room.

Lying curled on his bed Jack's not sure how much time passes until he feels able to breathe easier, for the feeling of complete and utter dread to ebb to a general state of uneasiness.

Still a little unsteady on his feet, Jack makes his way to his small bathroom and runs a sink of cold water. Splashing it over his face, he tries to compose himself, to calm himself.

It's with wet and trembling fingers that he opens his vortex manipulator and checks its connection with the Hub's computer, checks the details for the last login. The last as it turns out is a scant three hours ago, when Ianto Jones accessed the central database and printed off information about six different species of semi aquatic aliens.

Jack sags against the sink, head resting on the cold glass of the mirror above it. He's trembling again, this time though it's with relief. They are alive, and he finds himself smiling the first genuine smile he had since before this whole nightmare started.

His relief is short lived though as he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror.

The face that looks back at him is the same face that he's worn for over a hundred and forty years, and it shows nothing of what he's been through. Only his eyes are older, haunted now by more suffering than any one person should ever have to bear, they stare back at him blank and broken.

He punches the mirror before he even realises what he's doing, the glass shattering, leaving his reflection as broken and fragmented as he feels. But it's not enough, it never going to be enough and he hits the mirror again, striking it indiscriminately until it's surface is a crazed mess that shows nothing and his hand is streaming with blood, knuckles torn and broken.

Holding his injured hand to his chest Jack sinks to the floor, angry and scared both by his own memories and this sudden outburst of rage. He watches dumbly as his hand repairs itself, the skin knitting back together, bones realigning, until there is no damage left, the pain not quite real.

It's only the knowledge, fear, that his team could come back at any moment and find him that eventually stirs Jack to move. He can't let his team see him like this, he can't face their questions, their disappointment in him or worse yet their pity. He can barely face what has happened to him, never mind having to explain it to them.

Disposing of his blood stained shirt and trousers he selects a set of clothes that's the best match he can find for the ones he was wearing on the day he left.

Pulling on his coat he smiles grimly, it's either that or breakdown again. He'll meet them on his own terms, make big entrance, smile, dredge up a few racy stories and improbable situations, tell a joke or two and he's sure that they'll take him back with open arms and as few questions asked as possible.

He doesn't want to lie to them, but he knows that there's no way can't talk about it, not yet, he's just not ready. Anyway they need him to lead them, to tell than what to do, he's sure of that, and he can't do that if he allows himself to be a nervous weeping wreck in front of them.

It's better this way, he tells himself as he exits the Hub, heading for the location of the team's SUV. After all he's only lying to protect them, and it's not like it's a real lie, it's just being economical with the truth, he's certain he can live with that.

Reaching his destination, Jack stands outside a house in a quiet suburban neighbourhood listening to the raised voices of his team and the alien they are trying to capture, within. Then, smiling what he hopes is his most convincing smile he steps inside, ready to face his team and save the day, hoping that maybe, just maybe, if he can convince them that nothing's wrong and he's fine, that one day he might just be able to convince himself.

* * *

Authors note:

I know the Doctor is portrayed in a pretty bad light in this, but this fic is from Jack's point of view and he's really not in the best frame of mind about anything that's going on. So in short I'm not bashing the Doctor, as I do get why he acted the way he did, it just that I'm not sure that Jack would have seen it like that at the time.

Also a random observation, what Jack is wearing at the End of End of Days is what he is wearing when he catches a lift on the TARDIS in Utopia, however what he is wearing at the end of Last of the Timelords is not what he is wearing when he turns up in Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang.

So is this just one of the many continuity errors or was it deliberate and is meant to imply that there was a gap between Jack leaving the Doctor and rejoining his team.

I will be continuing this series further, although it will be posted over in the Torchwood section as the events in it will follow episodes from the second series of Torchwood rather than Doctor Who. It may be a while until I have any more of it written though as I want to finish my other Torchwood fic, A song as old as time, first.


	3. Mind Games Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sitting at his desk, head bowed, Jack keeps his hands clenched tightly in his lap. In front of him the monitor still displays the CCTV feed of the steps outside the Sennedd, where earlier Gwen and Rhys had sat, talked, and even laughed as they tried to make sense of a day that had nearly destroyed their lives.

Sitting at his desk, head bowed, Jack keeps his hands clenched tightly in his lap. In front of him the monitor still displays the CCTV feed of the steps outside the Sennedd, where earlier Gwen and Rhys had sat, talked, and even laughed as they tried to make sense of a day that had nearly destroyed their lives.

Not that Jack is watching the screen any more, it's too painful a reminder of how far removed from normality he is, and how he can never truly be part of the world around him no matter how hard he tries and wants.

The whole day has been a complete nightmare. From the moment he'd walked in the warehouse, the smell of blood so thick in the air that it had almost choked him, Jack knows he's been barely hanging on.

The creature's pain had been overwhelming, its helpless terror in the face of what was being done to it had been too close to the fear that he'd felt at the hands of the Master.

And afterwards seeing Ianto's wrists, red and sore from where he'd been restrained and from his escape, had been another reminder of his own captivity where he'd struggled against chains that had held him helplessly in place until his wrists had been bleeding and raw.

It's too much, and Jack picks up the rarely used decanter of whiskey on his desk and pours himself a glass, trying ignore how his hands have started to shake.

He knows that he probably shouldn't, that there are no answers to be found at the bottom of a glass, but he really can't find it within himself to care. Right now all he wants is peace, to not think and to not remember all that he's lost, and everything that still going to lose.

Because he is losing them, even if it's not to death, he knows that they are all moving on and he's not. The fact is, as much as it hurts to admit, they don't need him any more, not really. Leaving them was probably the best thing that he could have done for them to make them into a closer team.

Gwen has learnt to lead, to make the hard choices and stick by them and is stronger for it. Owen has grown up, and started to move beyond the self-destructiveness that had marred his personality in previous months. While Toshiko is starting to realise her own brilliance and worth for whom she it really is: a truly amazing woman.

Ianto has new a calm about him, an authority, and growing certainty in his own abilities. He is most definitely not just the tea-boy. He has made it clear to Jack that one of the conditions of the resumption of their relationship would be that they would treat each other as equals, and that work would be kept separate or otherwise it would be doomed before it even began.

And Jack's tried to do just that. He's tried so damn hard for all of them, to be what they need him to be, what they expect him to be, and it's not enough, it's never going to be enough. Knocking back the glass, Jack blames the fact that his eyes are watering on the burn of the alcohol, because he can't allow it to be anything else.

It's getting harder too fool them, to pretend that he's just the same as he was when he went away, most days he can't even convince himself. Yet Jack can't bring himself to tell them, to change how they think about him – he's lost so damn much he's not about jeopardize how they think of him just because he can't get his head in order.

A couple of weeks have passed since he'd stood in this office telling Toshiko about soldiers who'd been sent back to the trenches too soon. About how they'd needed time and understanding to overcome the horrors that they'd witnessed, and how they'd never received it. Jack wonders now if maybe his own subconscious had been trying to tell him that he'd come back to the fight too soon. That he'd returned before he'd given his mind and emotions time to heal.

No, Jack tells himself firmly, rubbing a hand across tired eyes, unable to recall the last time he actually slept, it's not the same at all. He can't allow it to be the same. He can't step back, he can't leave, because if he does he'll lose them. And he can't do that, not yet, not so soon.

Things haven't been easy since he came back, and Jack knows that he's come close to losing it in front of his team on a few occasions. He's let pieces of information slip, he's told them that he was held captive, that he was away far longer than the three months that had passed for them, and, without giving any details, that a lot of what happened to him wasn't pleasant.

Jack knows that Ianto already suspects something is wrong, how could do otherwise? But still he can't bring himself to share even a fraction of those memories with him, to burden him with the horrors he's been forced to endure.

The fear that he'll slip and say more than he means to, or lose control entirely, has been a constant companion since his return. The fact that it's already happened in private only makes the fear that it'll happen in front of them all the more real.

It had just been a weevil, nothing to call the team in for in the early hours of the morning. The chase through the deserted streets had been familiar, exhilarating, and he'd been enjoying it up until he'd tripped and fallen in an alleyway just as he'd got the weevil cornered. Hands cut on broken glass, he'd just been getting back on his feet when he'd heard it move behind him, it's claws against his back, pushing him back down against the rough ground. Everything after that had been a blur, his heart had been pounding and he couldn't catch his breath, as he'd fled.

Then there had been nothing, just a blank, until he'd come back to his senses, soaking wet and shivering sitting on one of the little mooring jetties out in the Bay watching the sun rise with no memory of how he'd got there.

He'd still been shaken and on edge a few hours later when they'd brought Beth Halloran in for questioning – something that he knows that his team couldn't have failed to miss.

Afternoon drifts into evening as time that longer matters passes, and Jack hears Owen and Tosh leave. Tosh sounds her usual calm self, talking quietly to Ianto as she gets ready to go home, asking him if he is all right and what his plans are for the evening. While Owen still sounds subdued, his experience with the creature having temporarily stripped him of his usual bravado.

Then the Hub is quiet. Jack is not sure whether to be relieved that Ianto has left with them and has given him space to try to get his head together, or if he should be angry that Ianto can't even be bothered to see if he is all right. Somehow he'd expected more of him.

It's not Ianto's fault, Jack thinks bitterly, it's nobody but his own. He knows how his actions towards Gwen combined with his own distantness must have seemed. It wasn't like that, it really wasn't.

Jack pours himself another glass, the fifth or sixth he thinks, although it could easily be more - he's not counting, he's just hoping this one will be the one that dulls the pain. He's not drunk like this in years, but today he welcomes the numbness that it will eventually bring, if only for a short while.

For years he's resisted this, ever since he'd started waiting, knowing that he needed to be ready to travel at a moments notice. Now there's nothing but an eternity of losing everything and everyone he cares about stretching out in front of him, and the certain knowledge that the one person who'll potentially be around as long as him thinks that he's wrong and can't bare to look at him.

Drinking the remained of the glass quickly wanting the oblivion it will eventually bring if only he drinks enough of it, Jack starts to pour another.

"I think you've had enough." Ianto carefully takes the glass from Jack's hand and places it down on the desk.

"You're right." Jack's voices wavers, his throat feeling raw from too much neat spirits. "I have." He takes a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself and failing, the shock of having been snuck up on leaving his chest feeling tight. "I've had just about all I can take."

"Jack?" Ianto asks, sounding concerned, as he moves closer. "What's wrong?"

"Me." Jack feels like he's choking, the room is hot and airless, and he staggers as tries to get up from his chair, legs feeling uncoordinated and weak. "I'm wrong, I'm all wrong."

"No." Ianto closes the distance between them again, putting a steadying hand on Jack's arm.

"I've got it on good authority. The best." Jack closes his eyes, the image of the Doctor telling him he's wrong, and that he can't bear to look at him, burning behind his eyelids.

"The Doctor," Ianto says flatly, the annoyance in his voice barely contained. "He's not perfect you know, he can make mistakes." He smiles grimly for a moment, "I think anybody who saw or knew what happened at Torchwood One would know that."

"

"I've tried not to push you for answers, but I know something's wrong." Ianto gently, but continues to firmly hold onto Jack's arm, keeping him on his feet. "I thought that if you needed to talk about it you would."

"I can't." Jack shakes his head, looking towards the door once more, wondering if he breaks free of Ianto's grasp if he can make it out of the Hub before his legs give way.

"I guess what I'm saying is that whatever happened to you, whatever it was, you can tell me," Ianto says, turning so that Jack is looking at him again.

"Believe me, you don't want to know."

"I think I should be the judge of that, don't you?"

"It won't help."

"I said that once, after Lisa."

"Not the same. It really isn't." Jack hangs his head, knowing that he's losing the argument, part of him scared that he'll talk and the other part scared that he won't.

"Maybe so," Ianto says simply, "But I know that you were right and talking did help. Let me help you, please."

"Ianto, I…" Jack's voice fails him as he looks into Ianto's eyes, seeing the love there.

"It doesn't have to be here, or now." Ianto lets go of Jack's arm, trusting him not to run away, "Come home with me, you shouldn't be alone not when your like this, please."

Nodding, not wanting to fight any more, Jack lets Ianto help him into his coat. Then, after setting the Hub's alarms, Jack follows Ianto down to his car, and they drive the short distance to Ianto's flat.

Ianto's flat is cool and quiet, the muted colours and soft lighting calming, although Jack thinks that there is nothing could settle his nerves completely. His heart doesn't feel like it's trying to beat its way out of his chest anymore, and there's enough air in the room so that every breath does feel like a battle.

Jack's relieved that Ianto doesn't start asking questions as soon as they arrive, choosing instead to make them tea and before settling on the sofa next to Jack.

"Talk to me," Ianto says quietly, once they've finished their tea, his hand stroking through Jack's hair, where Jack's head rests against his shoulder.

"There's so much you don't know." Jack wonders if Ianto can feel how much he's shaking, or know how much effort it's taking not to get up and run and never stop.

"Tell me what you can." Leaning over, Ianto kisses Jack softly, looking in his eyes as he does. He's still looking at Jack as he pulls back, saying, "Nothing you say could ever make me think less of you."

"When I gone there was this man, monster, he made me see things, feel things." Jack closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath, knowing that if he doesn't tell Ianto now that maybe he never will. "I don't know if any of it was true. I don't even know what would be easier."

It's exhausting telling Ianto even a fraction of what happened to him during that nightmare year, the memories still so sharp and vivid that Jack finds he has to stop frequently just so that he break apart altogether.

Finally Jack stops, drained physically and emotionally. Closing his eyes he leans back against the sofa, sleep threatens, and Jack wonders whether he should try to fight it. He has on most nights since his return, certainly every night that he's spent alone, tonight though he's not alone, and he wonders whether he should try.

Jack is still trying to decide when Ianto gets up, saying, "You should try to rest." His voice less than steady as he turns away, starting towards the kitchen, "You can have the bed, I'll take the sofa. I've got extra bedding."

"No." Jack catches hold of Ianto's wrist, "Come to bed with me." He doesn't want to be alone tonight, dreads the nightmares that will come if Ianto isn't there to wake him and chase them away, and hold him close until he remembers where he is and knows that he's safe.

Ianto looks shocked, stepping back from Jack, trying to pull away. "After what you've just told me? I don't think…"

"You don't think what?" Jack can feel anger start to flare up; hasn't he lost enough without Ianto turning away from him as well? "That you can stand to be near me? Bear to touch me?"

"It's not that." Ianto looks distraught, just a hair's breadth away from falling part himself.

"Then what?" Jack doesn't think anything could possibly make him feel any more wretched than he does right now. He can't believe how stupid he's been, he should have kept his mouth shut, he shouldn't have told Ianto, it was too much, too horrifying, he should have lied, said something else, anything else, because now he's going to lose one of the few people that make his life bearable. It's one final victory for Master, even though the bastard was months dead, or at least that's how it feels.

"Jack, pleas…"

"No! I just want you to hold me. Is that so much to ask?" Jack can feel tears starting to well up. He can't understand how he's been able to tell Ianto even a fraction of what he's been through and maintain some kind composure while the thought of having to spend just one night alone threatens to break him apart.

Ianto shakes his head, his own tears beginning to fall, "No, it's not." Then, walking over to Jack, he slowly puts his arms around him, "I'm sorry, Jack. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean...I still love you."

Ianto's words are barely heard as Jack clings to him, collapses against him, shaking, tears that he can't stop spilling down his face. It's a relief just to be able to let them out, to let go and know that there's someone there to catch him. He's been holding this inside for months, unable to let go, scared that if he did he'd never be able to stop.

How they get from clinging to each other in Ianto's front room, to them lying in Ianto's bed, him wearing a spare pair of Ianto's pyjamas, Jack doesn't know. It feels right though, natural, that they should be together like this.

Laying his head on Ianto's chest, Jack listens to the steady single heartbeat. It's alive, human, real, a connection to something that's good about his life.

Jack's half asleep, exhaustion finally winning out over the lingering fears about what nightmares will come, when Ianto takes his hand and places it over his heart, saying, "As long as you need me, Jack, I won't leave you. I promise."

Linking his fingers with Ianto's, knowing that there really isn't any need for words, Jack smiles and closes his eyes.

He's not all right, not yet, and Jack knows that they are still going to be bad days – he works for Torchwood after all, bad days are kind of guaranteed – but if he's got Ianto there to help him then perhaps one day he will be.


End file.
